Page 3 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
My gaze drifts across the room and snags on the dresser, where a silver picture frame catches the moonlight streaming through the window. Even from here, I can make out the image. Me in a midnight-blue prom dress, grinning at the camera with my arms wrapped around a broad shouldered, dark-haired golem boy in a black tux, so tall my head barely reaches his shoulder.
Gideon.
My chest tightens and my eyes sting as I stare at his boyish face, all sharp angles and that lopsided smile that used to make my knees weak. We look so young in that photo. So happy. So completely obliviousto the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, everything between us would shatter beyond repair.
I should have thrown that picture away years ago. Should have boxed up all those mementos and thrown them over the cliff and into the ocean. Instead, I abandoned it here like everything else when I left for college.
It’s the cautionary tale I’ve built my entire life around. A monument to a girl who believed in forever and got her dreams shattered along with her heart.
Before I can lose my nerve, I get up and cross the room, my bare feet silent on the old hardwood floors. The frame is cool under my fingers as I pick it up, and for a moment I let myself really look at the face of the boy who taught me everything I know about love and about heartbreak.
Ten years. It's been ten years, and I still catch myself writing heroes who look just like him.
With a sharp exhale, I flip the frame face down on the dresser and crawl back into bed.
Chapter Two
Gideon
Ishouldhavesaidno.
Then again, no one ever says no to Martha Flintman. Especially not me.
I eye the damaged fireplace mantel as I balance the granite slab against my thigh, pondering if the crack that runs through the center of the stone like a jagged scar can even be fixed.
This job should have been done ages ago.
This is what happens when the town council decides to go with the lowest bidder instead of doing things right the first time.Some jackass with a truck and a YouTube education tried to "fix" this mantel last spring, and now I'm here cleaning up his mess.
Against my will.
I should be home, working on the Hendersons' patio plans or finishing the repairs on the Murphy's retaining wall. Instead, I'm volunteering my Saturday afternoon because my mother has this annoying habit of offering my services to every committee, charity, and civic project in Saltford Bay without bothering to ask me first.
The granite settles into place with a satisfying thud that echoes through the town hall's main chamber. I brace it with one hand and reach for the mortar with the other.
Around me, the Knitters Club has transformed the space into holiday chaos. Folding tables sag under the weight of donated scarves, mittens, and hats in every color imaginable. The air smells like pine from the fresh garlands draped along the windows, mixed with the dusty scent of old stone and the lingering aroma of hot cocoa from someone's thermos.
I spread fresh mortar into the crack, working it deep into the damaged stone. My movements are economical, efficient. I've been doing this since I was old enough to hold a trowel, first learning at my father's side. If only he was still here, I know he would be volunteering with a smile on his face.
But he’s not. I’m the one running the business now.
Fourteen years of running Flintman & Son Masonry, and I still love the feel of stone under my hands. The weight of it, the way it responds to pressure and heat, how it can be shaped and fitted together to last for generations. Stone makes sense. Stone is reliable.
Stone doesn't wake up one day and decide it wants something different. As a golem, I can relate.
"That looks crooked to me," a voice says behind me.
I close my eyes and count to three before turning around. Councilwoman Bernadette Garrington stands there with her arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who's spent her entire seventy-something years perfecting the art of finding fault with other people's work.
"It's not crooked," I say through gritted teeth.
"Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing, it looks crooked."
My temper, already frayed from an afternoon of forced community service, snaps like a brittle twig. I shove the granite slab into perfect alignment with enough force to rattle the entire fireplace structure. Dust cascades from the mantle, and several volunteers jump at the sound.
"Straight enough?" I growl.
“Well, I never.” Bernadette takes a step back, her face flushing. "There's no need for that tone, young man. A simple 'yes, ma'am' would have sufficed."
